It seems that in today’s “blogging world” that a guest post is of paramount importance.  And not something to do with the writer being too lazy to put up their own post that day.  It is a way to get others point of view across and hope that they bring readers with them to your site.   And god knows I need more of those!  Do me a favour…hit share and share it with everyone.  There is a prize for the person that shares it the most.  (there really isn’t)

Soooo…  Erm.  In the interest of paramount importance rather than me being too lazy and after she read the last post and realised she was getting some bad press, today’s post is not by me.  It is by a guest poster.

It is by my bunny Elmee.  I am sorry.  I really don’t know what she is going to write.  Anyway, without further ado…..I present you with the guest post by ELMEEEEE!

Hi.

I thought I should probably bring my side of events to the table after reading that my personal sexual adventures were being posted online for all 3 readers of this site to read.  I want to tell you a story of love.  Of Friendship.  Of ultimate betrayal.

It all started a couple of weeks ago when I started to get urges. 

Me and my man would often sit, cuddling, grooming each other.  He would pick thing out of my hair, I would continuously lick his arm, face, head.  Heck, I groomed him so well one day that his head had a shine to it.

Then one day while doing this I got a weird feeling.  Like he wasn’t just a friend anymore who I spent my time with.  Someone who realised I didn’t want flowers and instead bought me lettuce.  And carrots.  He knew me like no other did. 

I should note that he is also a real gentleman.  He has no matter what state I am never picked me up and had a good old look between my legs.  He has assumed I am a girl because I have the kind of tail you only see on someone you reeeeally fancy.  I wont tell him if he is right or not.  It is irrelevant.  Love has no boundaries.  I am bunny.  He is man.  I have a cute tail, he has the ability to literally pick me up off of my feet and tug on my ears in a way I like.

Anyway.  These feelings.  One day we were playing the spinny roundy game.  He moves his hand around my side and I spin around and follow it.  Then all of a sudden out of nowhere I jumped up, grabbed his arm and humped his hand.

He looked perplexed.  A little confused.  Said some words I didn’t understand.  They were “What the actual f**k!”.   Not sure what it meant, so I assumed it meant “YES! MORE!  DON’T STOP!  LETS PARTY LIKE IT’S 1999!” and I carried on.

When I was done, he picked me up.  I was expecting a cuddle.  We didn’t.

He put me back in my cage and walked away.  Got himself a post-coital beer.  Made himself a sandwich.

I felt cheated.  Used.  Like I was only there for gratification of his hand.  I decided I would have my revenge.

A while later, he let me out again.   Smiled as if nothing had happened.  He even brought lettuce with him.  Hurt from our previous encounter I decided it was time to sleep around.  See how he felt knowing he couldn’t hurt me.

I saw a sexy looking round thing in the corner.  I asked it what its name was.  It didn’t answer.  It just stared at me. I took that as an invite.  I hid in the corner of the room and went right at it.  He heard.  He looked.  I looked him right in the eye as he peered over the chair.  Angered, I showed my claws.

*bang*.  My lover disappeared.  Actually, the skin was all that was left.  I was mortified.  He just laughed.  Said something about “She just humped a balloon”.

If anyone has seen my lover, please let me know.  It will be skinless.  I feel like it was just a bag of air.  

Since then, he has become aware of my ways and cleared things away.  I had my eye on a stuffed toy from my cage.  Gone. 

At least he continues to tug on my ears. *sigh*

Well.  Here is a turn of events I wasn’t expecting.

There I was, minding my own business last night, mucking about with Elmee the bunny.  When she grabbed my hand, had a little nibble….and started to hump my arm.

I thought Elmee was a girl.

Maybe Elmee is a girl.  According to Google, the little fluffpots will hump anything regardless of gender.  Shortly after I found out first hand.  Seriously…none of you have/had a bunny and thought of giving me a heads up on this?

As I sat, minding my own business, Miss Humps-a-lot bouncing about the room, I heard a squeaking noise.

No, she wasnt shagging a mouse. 

But the poor balloon that she was going to town on took one hell of a beating.  Actually, she popped it.  How do I explain that to my daughters?

“Daddy…what happened to my balloon?”

“Oh, Elmee shagged it to death.  *pause* Why are you crying?”

I just don’t think I can say that.  The room has since been removed of any soft toys.  I have started to wear plastic around my legs in case I get a case of really bad man-pregnancy.  OK, so I don’t know if that is possible, and certainly not via the human vs bunny reproduction method.  And I was not once a woman who went through the change.  No, not THAT change.  I am only 37.  Be nice.

But I now cant bring myself to check if Elmee is actually Elmer.  I got used to saying “her”.  We groom each other.  My wife is already quite jealous of the time we spend together.  What if we now find out she is a boy and I spend my time with a boy grooming each other.

Geez.  All this talking of grooming, I am expecting to get arrested.  Even more when I write the next several words:

I mean, she is 5 months old, so must be reaching sexual maturity. (Dear Mr Internet policeman.  I am not grooming a child.  Nor a bunny.  Nor….you know what…I am not grooming anyone/thing.  Not even myself.  I am an unshaven mess today.  Go eat a doughnut or whatever you do.)  So what happens now?  I am scared to ask Google as it keeps reminding me of previous searches such as:

Can I buy a condom for my leg

Bunny keeps humping me and I secretly enjoy it

I love long fluffy ears

Is it illegal to play with her tail…you know…that way.

When will it snow enough that I can skive off of work

I have even gone as far as to investigating the possibility of getting a blow up sex doll for her/him, except Google messed me about and decided instead of putting “Can I get a blow-up sex doll for my rabbit”, it changed it to “Did you mean:  You are a dirty little sod who wants to bang Big Bertha the Blow Up Bunny”.   So I don’t know.

Why do bunnies have to be so difficult?  “Is that a dog or a bitch?” “What?  Look…look at those huge balls hanging there.  Obviously a boy.”  Cows have udders.  Chickens lay eggs.  Blokes…even with manboobs…well, you can still tell. 

Why do rabbits have to hide what they have and even then, according to a page I read which had nothing to do with beastiality, you have to do it a certain way to be able to tell.  What is that about? And you know, I just don’t want to do it.

So for now, I will leave her to hump me.  Because I am the closest thing she has to a family member and it is only fair to keep it in the family.

I should probably reword that last line.

Well, as we march merrily in to the middle of January, multiple new years resolutions are already buggered.  Some haven’t started yet.  Some are in full swing…and some are in full swing but are starting to get boring already.

I considered giving up alcohol for the month of January.  Then I remembered I have 2 young daughters.  Giving up alcohol would be plain stupid at the moment.  So yeah, I haven’t gone through with it.  Resolution fail.  Happiness remains at an increased level.  Liver is still mildly pickled from Christmas.

The paths are full of you January Joggers.  The “I WILL GET FIT THIS YEAR!” ones.  I miss you after January.  I get used to your “WHEN WILL THIS END!” look you have on your face which you hide the best you can as someone runs past you with a smile which is more like a constipated grimace.  Then you are gone.  Back to the couch.  Away from the cold and snow and rain and me.  See you again next January?

The gym.  Ah yes.  The gym bunnies.  If you got on the scales recently and though “HOW MUCH!!  I PUT ON OVER 100 STONE!” well…you are stupid.  You have it set to pounds.  Nobody weighs 100 stone.  OK.  Some may:

In my defence, I had been on the KFC/BK/McDonalds diet.  It is a really easy diet.  You don’t cook, you just walk in, give them money, they give you obesity in return.  Bless.

Note:  Is it only me strangely intrigues by his moobs?  And where the hell are his knees?  And he has ridiculously little feet.

Anyway.  Yes, you have the scales on the wrong setting.  But it is nice to see you at the gym.  You look like a rabbit in the headlights of my car as I drive to work in the morning.  Tally:  Car 4 – Bunnies 0.  I do try to miss them.  I really do.  But I am not a very good driver.  And that one that stuck its middle paw up at me…well…he had it coming didn’t he.  Look. Stand by me on this one.  Sure, they are incredibly cute, they have long ears, fluffy tails, but playboy bunnies have an evil streak.

I keep moving away from the gym thing.  I am sure if you go to an online dictionary and put in “digress” it will have a picture of me with my thumbs up smiling at you.  (It doesn’t.  Don’t waste your time looking.)

SO YES.  THE GYM.  Geez, this bit isn’t even the main part of the post.  But anyway.  Don’t waste your money on that expensive gym membership.  Give the money to me instead.  If you truly wanted to join the gym and get in shape, you would have joined by now.  Instead you will join that gym half a mile from your house.  You will turn up.  You will get on the treadmill.  You will turn it on.  You will walk for 15 minutes.  You will leave and drive home.  Hint:  Walk to the gym and back.  Same distance.  Doesn’t cost anything. 

Or as I have noticed, the new mirror watchers.  Dude…you have been 3 times this year.  Which is also 3 times this decade.  You have the abs of a newborn baby.  Stop lifting your top up and looking.  I myself have now been a member of the gym for enough months that I get the “fist bump” as some of them leave.  It gives me a warm tingly sensation inside.   Although that may be the spicy dinner I had last night trying to make an appearance.  Not sure.

But all of the above pales in comparison to the invention by a Japanese guy of a tail that you can wear which wags when you get excited.  According to the very little I looked up on it (because I have more important things to do like make some toast.  Actually, bear with me, I will do that now before I continue.

Short interlude

Wow, that tasted amazing.  Anyway, yeah, this tail.  It works based on heartrate.  When your heartrate increases, it makes the tail wag to show you are excited.  The primary use if for you to show someone of the opposite sex (or same sex, it is a non-discriminatory tail) that you are interested because your heartrate raises.  Tail wags.  You get some.

I am no doctor.  No really, it is true.  I am not.  But from what I understand about that beaty thing in your chest is that it doesnt have a certain kind of beat for when you are excited/scared shitless/aroused/nervous. 

So what I am saying is….what a really stupid idea.

If I was walking around town one day wearing a fetching white fluffy tail looking to impress the ladies, and I saw an old man get knocked down at some traffic lights which meant I would think “JESUS!!  THATS BAD!” and my heartrate increased. Tail starts to wag.  And I ran over to help him.  Increasing my heartrate even more.  Tail starts to wag more.  And then he starts to get up but starts to fall and I find myself standing behind him, my groin to his behind.  Him almost dead.  My heart going crazy with worry.  My tail going insane.

That is not going to look good for me.

Or a bunch of guys at a nightclub.  The girls in skimpy clothes would be moaning about the tornado that is going on in there messing their hair up which has been created from a bunch of hormone crazed drunk 19 year olds with their tails going mad.

Or what if you were to be at a support group for something.  While someone you don’t really care about is saying about something truly bad that is happening to them, you have a thought.  “Did I leave the gas on?  The windows are shut…your pets are in the house….OH NO!” and your heartrate increases.  And your tail starts wagging.  At this exact time, the person talking says “…and I may only have 2 weeks left to live”.

Maybe you will be walking around the fields where you live.  You walk in to one, a bull is there.  He chases you.  You leg it over the fence to the next field.  Heart going crazy.  Tail wagging like a deranged lunatic.  You are hot and sweating.  You are now standing in a field of sheep.  At that moment, a police car drives past.  They see you.  With your tail wagging.  Hot and sweaty.  In a field of sheep. 

Do you see what I am saying here?  I am totally getting one of those tails.  You can read about them HERE.

Sooo…I haven’t paid the bill for this site yet.  It may go to the great site in the sky in the next few weeks.  So if I go quiet…like…forever…BYE!!!

Bootnote:  How awesome is the song Walk by the Foo Fighters?  Just sayin’.

Happy new ye….hang on…are you one of those that didn’t send me a Merry Christmas! comment?  If you are, I have gone off of you.  If you aren’t, I apologise and will finish what I started at the beginning of the paragraph: ar!

But if you ARE….oohhh…me and you…we have fallen out.

Well, here we are.  A few days in to 2013.  A time where you may or may not have finished all the leftovers from Christmas.  Your hangover may finally be leaving from the NYE party.  You are now counting down the days until you think it is suitable to return those unwanted gifts from your other half and get something you actually want.  And then hope they don’t notice.

Yes, I had a lovely Christmas.  Thank you for asking.  It has been the post-Christmas thing that has been an issue.

I don’t quite know how, but over the course of Christmas the house seemed to become a haven for leftover turkey, lamb and cheese. 

Those 3 items were all I ate between Dec 25th and last night.  It hasn’t gone.  I swear that each night over the Christmas break, the cheeses had a party.  Because we had inadvertently bought some slutty cheeses (you know the ones.  Yeah…I might be cheddar, but you are brie…lets get it oooooon!)  and left alcohol out, each night they got pregnant and reproduced more cheese.  And then we got to New Years Eve.  We were on the homeward stretch of the cheese eating.  It was almost gone.  We had a NYE party.  People brought more freakin CHEESE.  The fridge restocked itself. 

If I leave my fridge door open, my house will smell like a podiatrist’s waiting room in the middle of summer.  And the windows are closed.  And the aircon is broken.

I have eaten so much cheese that I am fairly confident I am turning in to a mouse.   I am pretty sure if I think back over the last week and the times that I have visited Number 2 Land (had a big poo for those of you that killed too many braincells over Christmas) that I am now as clogged up as the pores on a teenagers face.  I am literally ready to explode.  I have also taken a shine to woolly coats and…erm…what is a male turkey called?  Or are they like humans and have whatever name their mum gave them?  Google tells me they are called “Tom” or “Gobbler”.  I don’t want to say I have started to find gobblers attractive.  Nor anyone called Tom when I think about it.  What is a girl turkey called?  I would assume they would be called Sandra, but you know, I honestly don’t know.

But it is the mouse thing that I am most bothered about.  I didnt notice at first but I started to hunt down cheese.  I would open the fridge to get a drink….CHEESE!  No, I didn’t drink cheese.  But I would SEE cheese.  And eat it.  And over the course of the week, I began to start looking like a mouse.  On the 29th, I donned my running gear, buggered off to a race and picked up the warpaint on the table…and without even realising, I painted whiskers and a black nose on to my face.

No…really:

And you know it is true as why would I go out of my way to look like a complete idiot on purpose.  I mean, it isnt like I put a very nice 1950s style blue with white polka dots halter neck dress on for New Years Eve.  OK, so I did.  But you sure as hell aren’t getting THAT photo.  Nope, you didn’t say Merry Christmas.  So you don’t get to see me wearing that.  I guess you are bloody glad you ignored my request now. 

It hurts when you are mean to me.  I looked fetching.  Suuure, my wife refused to come anywhere near me, but I think that while she said it was “Because I looked like a really ugly cross dresser” that it was actually because she found me devastatingly attractive. The other reason why is because every time I went to kiss her she turned away…I think to check that everyone was getting to see who she was kissing.  And then forgot to turn back and actually kiss me.

So this has all led me to my New Years resolutions.  Something I can likely succeed in this time.  Last years (harness anti-matter, walk on the moon, be nice to my children) were all too hard and unrealistic.  So I am going for easy-street.  They are:

1 – Not to wear that dress again.  It caused uncomfortable chaffing around my neck the next morning when I went for a run in it (again, you aren’t having that photo either.  You will have to add me as a friend on Facebook to see those ones.  Don’t know my profile?  Your loss.  Kinda.)

2 – Harness microwave power to resolve world hunger

3 – Find God.  Without dying.

5 – Give up alcohol and cheese.  And lamb.  And turkey.

6 – Learn to count to 7.

7 – Get healthy by staying away from that mouse trap.  The piece of cheese on there is tempting me over.

What could possibly go wrong?

As I sit here…open the Admin page of the site and read this in the dashboard:

Newest Plugins

That’s What She Said

That’s What She Said is a feminist plugin that lives discreetly in your WordPress dashboard inspiring you with quotes by notable women.

I cant help but think “Wow…I could offend a few people here”.  But you know, I am a nice guy.  No really.  If you take away the stupid other stuff and keep the 1%, I am 100% of 1% nice. 

And it is Christmas.

Unless you don’t celebrate Christmas because you prefer other things…  Wow, I could probably offend a few people here.  Or I could ruin Christmas for the people who, like me, enjoy christmas.

But I wont.

Lets be honest, I don’t need to.  Someone else will invariably do it for you.  Not me though.  And nobody can ruin my christmas.  Not even baby Jesus coming back…or arriving for the first time…you know…if you think the whole thing is a load of rubbish.

But no.  If you would like to be annoyed, frustrated, thinking that peace and goodwill to all men can get itself crammed up the rear of a cow, then go shopping.

Like I just did.

Shops full of panicked people.  (Can I just note, I did all my shopping ages ago.  I just went in to town because it is fun to get in peoples way.) 

I wanted to have a nice wander through town.  I even considered putting a nice white robe on, a nice long wig and carrying a huge chunk of wood around.  And then saying “Got any change mate?” to everyone that passes by.   But I was told that it was blasphemous and I wasn’t allowed.  Blasphemous?  I was wearing nice loose comfortable attire and I needed that wood to make an extension for the rabbit hutch.  The hair?  Well…I kinda don’t have any since I inherited my fathers male pattern baldness.  I wanted the gift of hair for christmas! 

Have you noticed I keep writing Christmas but then sometimes christmas?  I dont know why.  I actually dont care why.  And lets be honest, you didnt notice until I pointed it out.

But you know…and this is actually true…unlike most of the stuff I put on here:

While walking around the shops I found myself next to a woman.  Holding a newborn baby.  Very newborn.  It couldn’t talk or anything like that.  Her friend called to her.  The woman, not the baby.  I just told you that it couldn’t speak.  Keep up.  Anyway, she said “Mary!”. 

And Mary had a newborn.  And I thought “eh up!  Mary…and a newborn.  On Christmas eve no less?” And do you know what his name was?  Again, no lie…this is completely true.

It was Stuart.

I thought “That was lucky.  If she had called him Jesus, he would have totally got the piss taken out of him at school”.

You know, you can probably stop reading this now.  To be honest, I had no plans for a post.  I am really just quite bored and rambling about things.

Still here?  Fine. Lets continue.

So.  I need to pay the bills to keep the site going.  Anyone wanna pay the £20 fee?  It is like the Wikipedia “OH MY GOD, YOU MUST SEND US CASH!” thing they have this time of year (I think it may be finished now) where the guy who owns the site puts up a cheesy photo and says “Without your cash…”

Without your cash,  I will have to pay for the myself.  And you know I cant be bothered.  So my bunny is going to stare at you until you pony up the cash:

I warn you.  That’s a real bunny.  Not a photo on your screen.  She will haunt you.  If you close your eyes, she will still be there.  Staring. 

By the way.  Someone decapitated my penguin.  Actually, they put his head back on.  Back to front.  And left a note saying “I see everything”.  I hope it wasn’t the penguin that did it to himself.  Can you imagine that?  An evil penguin?  I mean, the idea of having a foot scraping zombie chasing you is bad enough, but a penguin?  Scares the crap outta me just thinking about it.  It would be all flappy and the noise of its feet on the ground would be weird.  And they can be cute.  Who wants to be eaten alive by something cute?

Well, I can’t be bothered to carry on, and I am sure you are bored by now.  So I will say:

Merry Christmas.  Happy holidays.  Happy/Merry continuation of a normal working day without any celebrations.  Loving your satanic rituals.  Loving your religious literature.  Loving your atheism.  Loving your sodding large hadron collider proving a few points.  May the next few days be as much fun as they can be.

Now.  I said it to you.  Now you leave a bloody comment saying “Merry Xmas Sy.  Without you, I could have done something useful in the last 5 minutes!”.  Hint:  When it says “Email address” when you put a comment…it doesn’t need one.  WordPress just puts that there…I have no idea why.  There.  Now you don’t have an excuse for it.  Even you who get this on email or feed.  Come on.  It is CHRISTMAS!

If you dont, I may not renew the domain. (I probably still will…I hate empty threats.)

Until next time, take care of yourself.  And each other.

I should use that as my tagline…seems pretty original!

See you in 2013.

Kiss kiss.

Love you too.

No, you hang up.

YOU!

YOOUU!

Y…oh, you did.

😦

At the risk of jumping aboard the bandwagon here, I am quite excited about the end of the world.  Sure, the Mayans have played it down…while all moving in to secret underground bunkers hundreds of years ago.  I mean, you don’t REALLY think they mostly got wiped out do you?

And NASA have released a video entitled “So the b’stards were right:  Where do we go from here?”.  The first line of the video says “So why didn’t the world end on the 21st December?”  To be honest, I had a curry the other night…my world was over the next morning.  Since then I have been living in what can only be described as an afterbirth.

News sites are writing absolute garbage about what may happen Friday which thus far has been categorised as the following: Supervolcano, dark comet, cancer from foxes, a remake of the film Grease…and the absolute scariest way we could go:  The “band” One Direction stick around and bore the living hell out of us with their mindless rubbish cunningly disguised as songs. 

I say cunningly.  They are as cunning as decapitating yourself because you have an itchy foot. 

If you don’t know who One Direction are….can I come and live with you?  Please?  I have cookies!

But I have decided that I can use this whole end of the world thing.  I have started to do really daredevil things that when people question it, I reply “End of the world. Innit.” and snap my fingers and go “MmmMMMhhhHmmm” and strut off out of the room.

Such things as leaving the toilet seat up.  The wife cannot complain anymore.  The world is ending.  She has accepted that for a few days, there are more important things to worry about.  She also said “If the world doesn’t end, yours may for trying this sh*t on.” so I don’t know.  Have I bit off more than I can chew?  I even bought Bon Jovi’s greatest hits.  Yup.  Confusing though.  A whole CD and all that was on there was a single track.  20 seconds long.  Silent.  But I am really getting in to it.  Like a solace of just me and that soundless song.

OK fine.  About 20 years ago I went to see Bon Jovi.  I was given a free ticket.  And I kind of wanted to confirm that they were better live than they were on the tape I had.  The therapy cost me a fortune.

I have also started to be nice to people I work with.  It is really throwing them.  “Heyyy….how are you!  You look GREAT!  Is that a new head?  You look sooo much more attractive than you used to when you had that really ugly look going on.”  and they look just wondering why you are being so complimentary.  If the world doesn’t end, I intend to come back to work on Monday and become Dr Doom.

Of course, while I appreciate that it is indeed a whole load of rubbish and the chances of the world ending are similar to me being told that this site on occasion can be classed as humourous, I worry about people. 

People who are stockpiling food all over the place…and moving in to large metal tubes.  Yes, while we are rocking it up and going out in style and then turning in to zombies, they will be safe and sound in a metal tube.    These people will populate the world once we have turned to zombies.  They will be dinner.  I get the idea that wont be a big feast of brains.  And being a zombie, we wont be able to open those cans they have stockpiled.  Are they not thinking of us?

Lets hope the stupid people move in to nice brick houses with no windows when the nuclear holocaust comes.  The building will act as an oven.  It is easier to eat a human when they are fully cooked.

Trust me.  I know.

It’s coming.  Can you feel it?  No…not the end of the world rubbish, I will probably save that for a latter post.  I mean, you all did so well with the 12/12/12 12:12:12 thing.  I saw all of 2 posts adorn my Facebook wall like an unwelcome fart in a broken down lift.  I am expecting the end of the world madness to be a little worse.  And of course, we aren’t Facebook friends as none of you ever add me meaning that all I have is me, my wife and some people I went to school with who I don’t even remember.

But no, none of that.  What can you feel?  The sound of madness?  The long bearing attitude of insanity?  The woman who was found to be having a little bit TOO much fun with the skeleton of previously alive people?

Sadly, it is the last one. 

I mean, it makes sense.  No matter who you fancy, they have a skeleton.  So technically…you know…well…actually, I kinda hope you don’t know.  If you DO know…stay away from me you skeleton shagging weirdo.

Yes, under the “quirky news” section of a news site I found THIS (hint…you have to click the word THIS.  No, not that one, the previous one.  It is in bold.  Maybe even underlined.  And a different colour) which is a story about a Swedish woman who had been having a little too much fun with a skeleton.

“Quirky news”?  The woman had material on necrophilia.  How is that quirky?  That site needs to decide what is quirky and what is disturbingly worrying. 

So yes.  She had been using the bones in an unethical way.  Which is all well and good, but…what bones was she using?  Because, well…I have a funny bone.  Would she use that to tickle herself?  Did she have some elaborate plan to use each bone?  Did certain bones work better than others?  “ooohh…yes, I do like a good knee.  But not as much as a femur as I can play with myself and then after that I can play fetch with the dog” which leads the dog to go steaming off after that bone, get it…stop…sniff…realise that something is seriously wrong, but the overriding need to play fetch takes over and off he goes returning the bone.

 She has a lot of photos of morgues and chapels, and documents about how to have sex with recently deceased and otherwise dead people

Isn’t a dead person just a dead person?  What do you need to know?  I mean…I don’t think you need to ask them out on a date, or become friends on Facebook.  Hell, I don’t even think you need to spend much time talking to them at all.  Why?  BECAUSE THEY ARE DEAD YOU SICKO!  But if you weeeeeerrrreeee to decide to have intercourse with a recently deceased person, I think you would need one or 2 things.  A plinth may help.  Nothing too splintery though.   Oh, and if you are a man thinking of entertaining the recently deceased lady of your life, can I recommend just dipping your tackle in hydrochloric acid for 3 to 4 minutes until thoroughly clean.  You may find a little discomfort at first, but after that you are golden.

The woman pleaded not guilty.  Well obviously.  She had been getting it daily for months.  Guilt?  She was probably the happiest most chilled person on the planet.  And I bet that somewhere, there is a dead person who is looking down thinking “Why couldn’t I get this much action when I was alive?” and then tries to do something like that scene from Ghost where they make the pot but he ends up making a small cottage with a picket fence instead.

One of the other points of the news story that stands out is this bit:

In the confidential section of the investigation we have material which indicates she used them in sexual situations.

Well then.  That isn’t very confidential is it.  Because you seem to have told everyone in the world.  Maybe next time I go to the Dr regarding the STD I have which I didn’t catch from my wife, he could post all about it on his Facebook wall.  Maybe put a note up in the surgery?  Post it on some website for her to read.  Hang on…she doesn’t read this does she?  Sweetie…if you do read this, it isn’t an STD.  It is just that I REALLY enjoy scratching…and it is best if you don’t try it on with me for a few more weeks or so.  Whats that?  You wouldn’t anyway because you have more important things to do?  Like read the material on a new CD you got in the post on necroph….you know what, don’t finish that line, if I found out you wanted to have sex with a dead person, I honestly don’t know how I would deal with it.  I may actually kill myself.

You know what, this post was quite bad.  And I feel for you lot.  Sat there.  Thinking “Where the hell can I find myself a recently deceased person?”  Well don’t.  Just look at the picture below and realise that everything is OK:

Yes.  That is The Hoff.  Dressed as Santa.  No, YOU are welcome.  I particularly like the thumbs up thing he has going on.  What a guy.

Men.  Beware.  It has come to my attention that today is, according to a whole host of news reports, the best day for a woman to fall pregnant.  I am not kidding here.  Go to one of those places where you can find loads of information about stuff you aren’t always interested in…no not your mother in law….try Google.  And put in:

11th december most fertile day of the year

And look what comes up:

More babies will be conceived than any other day this year, according to new research.

National birth records show that September 16 is the most popular birthday in the UK.

And with the average gestation period for a baby being 40 weeks December 11, exactly 40 weeks prior to September 16, has been labelled as the most fertile day of the year.